


The Truth

by BloodAndRosesBitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodAndRosesBitch/pseuds/BloodAndRosesBitch
Summary: After Armageddidn't, Aziraphale and Crowley were free. Free to love, free to try and fail, free to try and succeed. Finally.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 6





	The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! Please R&R!

It was early morning, before the sun was up, and Aziraphale was making some comfort-cocoa. This was a typical practice of his whenever he had something on his mind, thought the 4 a.m. part was new. He usually spent long night immersed in one of those long Russian books (Dostoevsky was a favorite), or perhaps going over Nostradamus's works once more, just for amusement. Once, he had written (then promptly destroyed) a completely nice and accurate version of The Bible. But today he couldn't seem to focus on the written word, much less anything else in the physical world. There was something needling his brain, or rather, to be more precise, some _one_. Crowley.

And Aziraphale was really quite frustrated about it. 

See, he wasn't usually the type to get stuck on interpersonal matters. He didn't contemplate whether his dear Oscar had really loved him, did he? He just came every time the boy called, and they made love like it was 1415. But with Crowley it was different. He found that now that they were free as birds, free to be lovebirds, he couldn't stop thinking about the possibilities. How they could touch each other, hold each other, kiss each other.

Perhaps he ought to discuss such thoughts with the demon himself.

It was, however, 4 a.m. and if Crowley was up then something was probably wrong.

Aziraphale sipped his cocoa gently, and sat in supreme silence until noon, when Crowley was sure to be up and kicking, then Aziraphale picked up his old rotary and dialed.

"Angel?" Crowley voice asked, coming through the old speakers a little bit crackly.

"Dear boy, good afternoon! Would you like to come over, watch me eat a croissant from this wonderful little bakery that just opened up a few blocks away? I've got a... er, thing."

"What _kind_ of thing?"

"To talk to you about." Crowley made a noncommittal sound. "Only if you want to!" Aziraphale added, in haste. "I certainly don't want to pressure you into an engagement."

"Of course, angel. I'll be over in ten."

"Brilliant! Fare thee well," he said, smiling just a little bit.

"Bye," Crowley replied, and hung up.

Aziraphale let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, collapsing into a nearby armchair. In his mind, he began to compose something that any human would call a confession, but he simply referred to as the truth. Crowley got there much too soon and much too late for his liking, the doorbell ringing exactly ten minutes, down to the second, that Crowley had hung up the phone. Aziraphale got up, suddenly feeling agitated and sluggish all at once, and opened the door.

"Hey," Crowley said, flipping his hand up in greeting and stepping inside.

"Hello dear boy," Aziraphale said, his voice suddenly flimsy.

"You okay?"

"Why yes! Awfully okay, just simply... uh, tickety boo! Just my nerves, I'm afraid," Aziraphale responded, brushing his hair with his hands and leading Crowley to the back room, where a plate with aforementioned croissant was miraculously waiting.

"Nerves about what?"

"Well..." Aziraphale sat down and sighed. Crowley sat down a respectable distance away from him on the couch. "Ah, that's precisely why I wanted to talk to you."

There was a moment of comfortable silence as Aziraphale took his first bite of croissant, closing his eyes as the warm pastry fell apart effortlessly in his mouth, savoring the subtle sweet, buttery-ness of it.

"See, my dear boy," Aziraphale started, wiping his mouth with a napkin and trying to remember the sentences he'd constructed mere minutes before. "I think the simplest way to say this is telling you that I... I want to be closer to you."

Crowley frowned for a moment, his shoulders tensing with something Aziraphale couldn't place. Then, the demon's mouth screwed up tight, he got up and sat back down, centimetres from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale almost giggled. Crowley looked up at him, lips still tight, shoulders even tighter, and Aziraphale swore that he had never been more beautiful. He was nearly shaking, but his red hair was shining and his eyes were bright with some kind of hope. Maybe starlight.

"Can I... touch your face?" Aziraphale murmured, his voice the texture of downy feathers.

"Please," Crowley whispered hoarsely.

Aziraphale's hands were shaking. Crowley's whole body was shaking. Aziraphale felt light-headed and faint, like he might just pass out if given a break from the wonderful adrenaline rush that came with touching your lover's face for the first time. Aziraphale was touching Crowley's face for the first time. Crowley's whole body was tensed, ready to run, but he was so alive and so in the moment. All he could feel were Aziraphale's fingertips, all he could smell was Aziraphale (molding pages, cocoa, a little bit of wine) Both of them felt so real, realer than real, real, now with somatosensory effects.

Crowley's cheek was surprisingly warm, and soft, and Aziraphale brushed his fingers over it gently. Crowley very nearly gasped, the sensation was so overpowering.

"Is this okay, dear?" Aziraphale whispered, both because his sense of touch was so on fire he wasn't sure he could stand anything louder and because the moment was so fragile one could've easily blown it away with careless breaths.

"Mmm," Crowley hummed affirmatively, and closed his eyes.

They sat like that for perhaps hours, perhaps days, Aziraphale's hand splayed across Crowley's cheek. Sometimes they talked, sometimes there was silence.

Whatever happened now, Aziraphale felt he would be alright. Crowley was his. He was Crowley's. For real and for sure, this time. 


End file.
